


Too Early For This Shit

by RosesandStatues



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 2k, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Beta Read, Brief smutty scene, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, I Love You, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'll write rose x ten fluff next if you guys like this, I'll write smut if you want, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, My First Work in This Fandom, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade Fluff, One Shot, Philip Anderson (referenced), Requited Love, Requited Unrequited Love, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Kissing, Sleepy Lestrade, Superwholock is my life, and when I say brief smutty scene I mean like fleeting thought brief, bet, guys this is amazing, i have no life, mystrade, sorry - Freeform, this killed my soul writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 14:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15075017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosesandStatues/pseuds/RosesandStatues
Summary: Greg cleared his throat, “Thanks for walking me down?”“Is that a question?”“Uh…”Mycroft frowned briefly, and looked like he was ready to completely reevaluate his entire life choices. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He didn't move. Neither did Greg.The pit of Greg’s stomach was alight with fireworks, and he felt rather nauseous. Something was going to happen. Something big. The silence stretched between like a cloth. A cloth that was on fire.He couldn’t help but notice how handsome Mycroft looked, and then instantly chided himself for the thought. The Anderson in him ran away with dirty thoughts, like how he would feel pressed up against him, grinding gently against him, soft moans working their way from his-“Greg!”“Sorry...”OrSherlock and Mycroft make a bet.Mycroft wins.





	Too Early For This Shit

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Start again, and  _ slower _ ,  _ please _ .” 

Greg ran his hands through his graying hair, his footsteps thunking slightly each time they connected with the carpeted floor. 

“And  _ stop pacing! _ ” The detective inspector stopped walking the length of the room, hesitated briefly, before sitting down on the couch, feeling like one of John and Sherlock’s clients. 

“So, I was staying late at the office to finish up some paperwork…”

 

_ The sun had long since gone dark, the glow of the city lights taking the place of the stars that should have come out. It was cold, but it was always cold in London, so Greg paid little attention to the weather. He just had a few files left to finish, three tops, before he could go home. _

_ Oh, home. Loneliness had long since declared the place its own, and Greg was finding it quite depressing to enter his house. You could see it in the way the curtains held a thin, barely noticeable layer of dust, or the way that the only dishes in the kitchen used were the coffee mugs. The way some rooms hadn’t been opened in days, and the TV seemed to constantly be playing. Greg was lonely. _

_ He wanted company, desperately, but he didn’t want  _ that _ type of company. He wanted someone to eat breakfast with, to cuddle with, to ask him how is day was. He didn’t want just a sex partner- he wanted someone he could love. _

“Please get to the point, Greg. It’s too early for this.”

“Sorry…”

 

_ Sitting in that uncomfortable office chair, his large desk covered with papers spread out before him, Greg’s eyes had started to droop. His hand found his cheek, and soon he was leaning back in his chair, soft snores radiating from his mouth.  _

__ _ He wasn’t sure what woke him- maybe a passing car honking at bad traffic, or drunk passerbyers laughing into the darkness, but he jumped awake rather violently, much to his displeasure. The glowing digital clock in the corner read 3:25, and with a sigh, he dragged himself up from his chair.  _

__ _ It was too late (or too early) to finish up that last bit of paperwork, and, quite frankly, Greg couldn’t find it in himself to care. He wanted to get back to his sad house, and his sad bed, and fall into a sad sleep.  _

__ _ He walked out into the dark lobby, the other desks’ silhouettes outlined creepily against the little light meandering in through the window. He made his way to exit, before a figure cleared its throat behind him.  _

__ _ Greg jumped a foot in the air and spun around, hand reaching for his gun, before freezing at Mycroft Holmes’ soft smile (smirk? It was more of a smirk) in front of him.  _

 

“He was just standing in the dark?”

“Yeah. I didn’t even notice him.”

“Drama queen…”

 

_ “Mycroft! What the hell! You scared the living shit out of me!” _

__ _ “Apologies,” he replied, sounding not apologetic at all. “I thought you might be here.” He paused, shifting awkwardly, his hand adjusting its grip on his umbrella. “It’s a little late for paperwork, isn’t it?” _

__ _ “I fell asleep.”  _

__ _ “Ah.”  _

__ _ Another uncomfortably tense silence filled the room, and Greg had half a mind to just turn and walk out. It was too early for this shit.  _

_ He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I was just heading home, so…” _

__ _ “I’ll walk you out.” Because it was perfectly normal for Mycroft Holmes to be standing in the middle of the Scotland Yard at 3:25 in the morning in the dark. And because it was perfectly normal for the most stoic person Greg knew to offer to walk him out to his car.  _

__

“The oddest thing about the entire thing was how uncomfortable Mycroft seemed, like he’s usually so calm and collected, but he was tapping his finger on his umbrella, shifting around awkwardly. The whole shebang… Uh, where was I?” 

“He was walking you out…”

“Right.”

 

__ _ The entire walk down to the parking lot neither Greg nor Mycroft said a word. They walked with a large space between them, a distance of at least four feet between them. They reached the parking lot and then Greg’s car in several, painfully tense minutes.  _

__ _ It was a tiny, red thing, that seemed to radiate forlornness, from the way the paint no longer shined to how the tires needed a changing. The pair stopped, Greg shuffling awkwardly, Mycroft watching him with a piercing gaze.   _

__

“Piercing? Really?”

“I’m serious! You know how Mycroft is! I thought he was going to kill me or something…”

 

_ Greg cleared his throat, “Thanks for walking me down?” _

__ _ “Is that a question?” _

__ _ “Uh…” _

__ _ Mycroft frowned briefly, and looked like he was ready to completely reevaluate his entire life choices. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He didn't move. Neither did Greg.  _

__ _ The pit of Greg’s stomach was alight with fireworks, and he felt rather nauseous.  _ Something _ was going to happen. Something big. The silence stretched between like a cloth. A cloth that was on fire.  _

__ _ He couldn’t help but notice how handsome Mycroft looked, and then instantly chided himself for the thought. The Anderson in him ran away with dirty thoughts, like how he would feel pressed up against him, grinding gently against him, soft moans working their way from his- _

 

“Greg!”

“Sorry…”

 

__ _ Mycroft blinked owlishly at him, and took a step forward. Greg felt frozen, unable to look at anything but the tall man in front of him. Mycroft took another small stride forward, reducing the distance between them to a few inches.  _

__ _ Greg’s eyes darted down to the other man’s lips, and back up to his eyes. Mycroft’s fingers twitched, before he reached up, and placed them against his Greg’s cheek. Mycroft’s gaze kept dancing downwards towards his lips, and then fluttering back upwards to the detective inspectors eyes. Greg leaned into Mycroft’s hand, heart beating rapidly in his chest. Mycroft hesitated, eyes unsure, and Greg wanted to scream at him to just kiss him already, goddamnit. Greg paused, before reaching his own hand up to cup Mycroft’s face- and whether or not he marveled at how soft his cheek was will remain a secret. _

__ _ (Hint: he totally did.) _

__ _ That was the only cue Mycroft needed, before telling the few inches between them to fuck off and closing the gap between them. He leaned down, and his lips brushed Greg’s, hesitant, uncertain. He started to pull away, but Greg reached up and wrapped his arm around the other man’s waist, keeping him from pulling away. He kissed back, harder this time, more desperate. Mycroft took a step forward, effectively pinning Greg against the car, running his spindly fingers through Greg’s salt and pepper hair. _

__ _ Greg tried not to think how perfectly they fit together: like a puzzle piece. Nor did he think about how his stomach was doing flips, or how soft Mycroft’s lips were, or how his brain was screaming  _ holyfuckingshitholyfuckingshitMycroftHolmesiskissingmeahhhhhhhhh. 

__ _ Eventually, because people unfortunately need to breathe, they broke apart. Foreheads knocking together gently, Mycroft’s hand still fisted gently in Greg’s hair, bodies still pressed together, “You have no idea how long I wanted to do that.” _

 

“He  _ actually _ said that?”

“Yes!”

 

__ _ A shaky laugh escaped Greg’s lips, his hand still cupping Mycroft’s face, arm still wrapped around his waist. Mycroft leaned down, his lips skating briefly over Greg’s lips before pulling away.  _

__ _ He flashed him a brilliant smile, “I hope you have a good night,” and walked off, umbrella clicking softly against the pavement as he disappeared into the dark, returned to his state of calm. _

__ _ Meanwhile, Greg was leaning against his car, hand gently touching his lips, feeling like he was about to melt into a puddle on the ground. _

__ _ Or explode. That too.  _

 

__ “He just walked off?”

“Yeah! He just… left! Off he fucked into the night!”

“And then what did you do?”

“I stood there for like, ten minutes before driving straight here.”

John rubbed his eyes furiously again. While Greg stood up and resumed his earlier pacing. “John, the man who is  _ freaking Great Britain just kissed me! What am I supposed to do?! _ ”

The other man muttered a small, “I didn’t even know Mycroft  _ did _ kissing,” before sighing again, for what felt like the hundredth time that night. “You kissed him back, right?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, how could I not? He’s freaking ador-” Greg stopped abruptly, words dying on his tongue from John’s withering glare. 

“Do you like him?”

Here Greg faltered. Did he? Or did he just get caught up in the heat of the moment? But he  _ liked _ the kiss. He  _ knows _ he did. So he had to like Mycroft… right?

“I…”

John frowned. “You don’t know, do you? Well that certainly makes everything easier.”

“Sorry. For like the third time.” 

John waved his hand. “Don’t apologize.” He paused, tapped his fingers on his armrest, ran his fingers through his messy bedhead, before speaking again. “Let’s put it this way: Given the chance, would  _ you _ have kissed  _ him _ ?”

“Uh… Maybe?”

“ _ Greg. Please.  _ I can’t help you if you don’t answer my questions with  _ straight  _ answers.”

“But I  _ don’t know _ !”

“Well, that’s entirely predictable, George. Of course you don’t know.”

Both John and Greg jumped, Greg spluttered at the sheet-clad Sherlock standing in the corner, holding a chipped cup of tea. “How long have you been there?!”

“Since the ‘Sorry. For like the third time.’” He waddled over, clutching the sheet closed at the seam, occasionally flashes of skin showing through the gaps. “Someone kissed you, and you kissed back, but now you aren’t certain whether you like him or not.” Sherlock plopped down in his chair, drawing his legs up on the seat. “What I don’t know, is who.”

He raised the cup to his lips at the same time John said, “Your brother kissed Greg in the Scotland Yard parking lot in the most cliche way possible.” 

Sherlock instantly began to cough, eyes watering from inhaling his tea, “ _ He did what?! _ ”

Greg tossed up his hands, “Exactly! What the hell am I supposed to do?”

At that exact moment, there was a loud knock on the door. Sherlock turned and raised his eyebrow at John, “Are we expecting someone?” John shook his head, a frown creasing his lips. 

The sound of the front door opening, followed by Ms. Hudson’s annoyed tirade. “It is  _ 4 o’clock in the morning, for chrissakes! Really, don’t you boys have any manners? _ ” And then, in a much sweeter tone, “They’re upstairs, love.” 

The sound of footsteps walking up the creaky steps, and, rounding the corner, Mycroft’s face came into view. He strutted into the room in his usual fashion- the,  _ I’m better than you and everyone knows it  _ walk, eyes scanning the group. His gaze briefly stuttered on Greg, a tiny genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips, before coming to rest on Sherlock. A large smirk split his face, eyes alight with mischief. “I win.”

Sherlock spluttered for the second time that night. “You cheated!”

“Oh? And how did I cheat?”

“I’m certain you found a way! Fabricated the entire thing!”

Mycroft’s smirk grew wider, “But you have no proof. So, seeing as the only  _ real  _ evidence you have is Greg saying I kissed him, you owe me ten pounds.”

“Wait, wait!” Greg interrupted, but was quickly ignored, as the Holmes brothers tended to do to anyone who got the way of their conversations. 

Sherlock let out a stream of curse words, some of which caused Greg to wince at their vulgarity. He stood up and plodded over to the table, where he picked up John’s wallet and pulled out a 10 pound bill. 

John let out a sharp, “ _ Oi!  _ That’s  _ my _ money!” John got no reaction from the two. 

Sherlock stuck out the bill to Mycroft, sullen the entire time. Mycroft’s grin grew bigger as he accepted the money. “And I believe that you haven’t held up your entire end of the bargain.”

The younger Holmes let out a small hiss through his teeth. “I hate you.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” Mycroft’s eyes glittered with laughter, an emotion that seemed slightly out of place on his face. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He turned to face Greg, eyes softening slightly, gaze lowering ever so briefly down to the lips he had just kissed not even an hour before. The detective inspector hesitated, but only for a few seconds. He was tired of sleeping alone. He was tired of that empty feeling that filled his chest. He was tired of being alone. 

And anyways, he was pretty certain he had answered John’s question. 

Greg smiled, and walked out of the room with Mycroft.

 

Sherlock watched them go, and flopped back down on the chair like the dramatic infant he was. His tea long forgotten on the coffee table, knees once again pulled up to his chest. 

“So you guys bet on who could kiss Greg first?”

Sherlock made a face. “Of course not. While Greg is mildly tolerable, I would never dream of having a romantic relationship with him.”

Another frown creased John’s face. Once again, he was bombarded by the thought of  _ It’s too early for this _ . “What do you have to do then?”

Sherlock stiffened slightly, and sprang up from the chair, taking Greg’s place in pacing. John paused, waiting for Sherlock to respond. When it became evident that he wasn’t going to, he sighed, again, and stood up. “I’m going to bed.” He managed to make it to the doorway leading up to the bedrooms before he felt a hand suddenly grab hold of his wrist. 

He turned around, and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who quickly dropped his wrist. “Yes?”

The taller man opened and closed his mouth like a fish. “I, uh…” Sherlock at a loss for words. That was new. 

He took a step back, rocked on the balls of his feet, hand still gripping the sheet tightly. He looked torn, as if he desperately wanted to do something but his gut was screaming at him not to. And then he stopped. “Oh, screw it.” 

He closed the distance between himself and John in less than a second, pushing John up against the wall. His lips hovered just above John’s their noses brushing, curls falling in front of his eyes. One of his hands reached up traced John’s cheekbone. “God, you’re beautiful.” The words were muffled slightly as Sherlock leaned closer, lips brushing once, twice, before pressing firmly against each other. 

John’s eyes fluttered closed, and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him closer. 

(Quite like Greg’s epiphany, John noted how well they fit together.) Finally, Sherlock pulled away, still close enough that their foreheads were touching.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John whispered. “If I knew you wanted to do that I would have done it a long time ago.” This time it was him who reached up and pulled Sherlock down for a kiss. He could feel Sherlock’s smile pressing against his mouth, and he answered with a smile of his own. When they broke apart for the second time, John tried again. "So you guys had a bet on who could kiss us first?"

"Something like that." Sherlock pressed closer to John, hand dancing through his hair as he leaned down for yet another kiss. (The feeling of finally kissing someone who you had been pining after for years was quite addicting.)

A throat cleared behind them and the two split apart so fast John nearly got whiplash. Behind them stood Ms. Hudson, hair done up in curlers, wrapped in a fuzzy pink robe, and with a large shit-eating grin etched into her face. “I guess you won’t be needing two bedrooms, then.” 

  
  
  


__


End file.
